I’ve grown old since our farewell, bitterly cultivating the Tao,
refining the irreconcilable heart all the way into dead ash.
I thought I’d polished the memories of a lifetime clean away—
so how is it you came stealing into my dreams again last night?
translated by David Hinton
Uncategorized
these days
time flies
quicker than anticipated
or desired
my thinning hair
mostly grey
like my beard
and that bottle
of Irish
does little
to ease regret
even less for remorse
life is
as they say
hard on elders
and wisdom
is in short supply
these days
Village Snow, Sitting at Night by Po Chü-i
At the south window, my back to a lamp,
I sit. Wind scatters sleet into darkness.
In lone depths of silent village night:
the call of a late goose in falling snow.
translated by David Hinton
Pond in a Basin by Tu Mu
It breaks up green moss ground
And steals a piece of heaven;
White clouds grow in the mirror,
A bright moon falls upon the steps.
translated by Eddie Tsang
from Three Dreams at Chiang-ling: III by Yüan Chen
Your bones have long since turned to dust,
My heart for just as long to ashes!
A hundred -year life has no end!
For three nights you’ve come to me in a dream.
The flowing waters have passed and are gone,
The floating clouds, where are they now?
As I sit watching the morning sun come up,
A flock of birds by twos returns.
translated by William H. Nienhauser
Late Spring by Yüan Chen
Evening swallows keep twittering by my curtain,
Pairs of sparrows squabble, stir up dust on the steps;
The wind closes my wicker gate at sundown,
Quietly the flowers fall one by one, but no one comes.
translated by Dell B. Hales
Autumn Thought by Ts’en Shen
Suddenly aware that the good year is almost over,
Sitting down, I look at the chilling leaves fall.
I cannot even be like the decayed grasses
That whirl up and transform into fireflies.
translated by C.H. Wang
Parting from Wang Wei by Meng Hao-jan
Forlorn and lonely, my time will never come;
Day after day, I return by myself in vain.
I wish to go away, to seek fragrant herbs,
But regret that I must leave an old friend behind.
On whom among those in power might I depend?
Few in this world hear the same music as I.
All I can do is keep to my lonely solitude,
And just close the gate of my old garden.
translated by Daniel Bryant
W. Somerset Maugham on writing
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
At Horizon’s End, Thinking of Li Po by Tu Fu
Chill wind stirs at horizon’s end:
My friend, what news?
When will the geese arrive?
Autumn swells river and stream.
Writers abhor worldly success;
Mountain demons like to entrap us.
Perhaps we should talk with the abused soul,
By sending a poem to the River Mi-lo.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
Leonard Durso 